\. THE DECISION T HE home of Francis Townsend could have been taken for the birthplace of a nineteenth-century American poet, one of those little white houses by the side of the road that are regarded by the interested as national shrines. In front of the house there was a mounting block and a hitching post, iron, with the head of a horse holdIng an iron rIng, instead of a bit, in its mouth. These, of course, had not been used in the last thirty years, but use did not govern the removal of many objects about the 'Iownsend place. Things were added, after due consideration, but very little was ever taken away. The Townsend place was on the outskirts of the seacoast village, out of the zone where the sidewalks were paved. In the fall of the year and in the spring, the sidewalk was liable to be rather muddy, and Francis Townsend several times had considered bricking the path-not that he minded the mud, but out of consideration for the female pedestrians. This project he had dis- missed after studying the situation every afternoon for a week. He sat by the win- dow in the front room and came to the conclusion that (a) there were not really many pedestrians during the m udd y seasons, since there were few summer people around in spring or fall, and (b) the few natives who did use the sidewalk in front of hIs place were peo- ple who had sense enough tö be properly shod in muddy weather. Another and very satisfying discovery that Francis Townsend made was that few people- men, women, or children-came near his house at all. For a long, long time he had entertained the belief that the street outside was a busy thoroughfare, more or less choked with foot and vehicular traffic. "1 am really quit alone out here," he remarked to him- self. This allowed for the fact that he had made his study of the muddy-side- walk problem in the afternoon, when traffic was presumably lighter than in the morning, when, for instance, house- wives would be doing their shopping. The housewives and others could not have made that much difference; even if the morning traffic were double that of the afternoon, it still was not consid- erable. It was, of course, impossible for }'rancis Townsend to make his study in the morning, except Sunday morning, for Francis Townsend's mornings were, in a manner of speaking, spoken for. Every morning, Francis Townsend would rise at six-thirty, shave and have his bath, and himself prepare first break- fast, which consisted of two cups of coffee and a doughnut. In the winter he would have this meal in the kitchen, cheerful with its many windows and warm hecause of the huge range. In the summer he would take the coffee and doughnut to the front room, where It was dark and cool all day. He would run water into the dirty cup and saucer and put them in the sink for the further atten tion of Mrs. Dayton, his house- keeper, who usually made her appear- ance at eight-thirty. By the time she arrived, Francis Townsend would have changed from his sneakers and khaki pants and cardigan to a more suitable costume-his black suit, high black kid shoes, starched collar, and black four- in-hand tie. He would smoke a cigarette while he listened to Mrs. Dayton stir- ring about in the kitchen, and pretty soon would come the sound of the knocker and he would go to the front door. That would be Jerry Bradford, the letter carrier. " G d . J " 00 mornIng, erry. "Good morl!ing, Francis. Three let- ters an-n-nd the New York paper." "Three letters and the paper, thank " you. "Fresh this lTIorning. Wind's from the east. Might have a little rain later . h d " In tea y . " Oh h . k -.-I" , you t In so [ "Well, I might be wrong. See you tomorrow, in all likelihood." Jerry would go away and Francis would stand at the open doorway until Jerry had passed the Townsend property line. Then sometimes Francis would look at the brass nameplate, with its smooth patina and barely distinguish- able name: "F. T. Townsend, M.D." The plate was small, hardly any larger than the plate for a man's calling card, not a proper physician's shingle at all, hut there it was and had been from the day of his return from medical school. He would go back to his chair in the front room and wait for Mrs. Dayton to announce breakfast, which she did 23 in her own way. She would say, "Morn- ing," as greeting, and nod slowly, in- dicating that breakfast was on the table. Francis then wou d take his paper and letters to the dining room and partake of second breakfast-oatmeal, ham and eggs, toast that was toasted over a flame.. and a pot of èoffee. Mrs. Dayton ap- peared only once during breakfast, when she brought in the eggs and took away the cereal dishes. Francis Townsend's mail rarely was worth the pleasure of anticipation. That did not keep him from anticipating J er- ry Bradford's knock on the door or from continuing to hope for some sur- prise when he slit the envelopes with his butter knife. The reading of his maîl did, in fact, give him pleasure, even though it might be no more than an alumni-association plea, a list of candi- dates for membership in his N ew York club, or an advertisement from a drug or instrument company. Francis Town- send would read them all, all the way through, propping them against the tall silver saltcellar, and then he would take then1 with him to the front room, so that Mrs. Dayton could not see them, and there he would toss them in the fire or, in warm weather, put a match to them. Then, every day but Sunday, Fran- cis Townsend would take his walk. For the first thirty of the last forty years, F'rancis Townsend had had a compan- ion on his walk. The companion al- ways had been a collie; not always the same collie, but always a collie. But about ten years ago, when the last Dollie (all of Francis Townsend's dogs had been called Dollie) died, Francis Town- send read somewhere or heard some- where that it took too much out of you to have dogs; you no sooner grew to love them, and they you, than they died and you had to start al] over again with a new one. This bit of dog lore came at a time when Francis Townsend had just lost a Dollie and was suffering a slight nosebleed. It was not a proper hemorrhage, but it was not exactly reassuring as to F rancis Townsend's life expectancy, and he did not want to take on the responsibility of an- other Dollie if Dollie were to be left without anyone to take care of her, an} more than he wanted to go through the pain of losing another dog. There- fore, for the last tèn years or so, Fran- cis Townsend had taken his walk al on e. AL THOUGH he would not have n known it, Francis Townsend's daily-except Sunday-walk was as